


Starved

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Sensuality, Technically asexuality is in there, Wherein a sensualist angel and a touch-starved demon make some discoveries, but it may not be very clearly on account of Aziraphale being a sensualist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: The first time the angel touches him, it’s as they descend from the walls of Eden.It’s nothing, only a hand put out to steady him. A kindness.And yet a thousand memories from life below make Crawly flinch instinctively at the contact. It’s stupid, really, and he’s sure the angel doesn’t notice. He doesn’t stop to consider the fact that the angel’s hand was soft and for a moment, his skin tingled where it touched.Not right away, anyway.





	Starved

**Author's Note:**

> This did not go the way I expected. Who knew that Aziraphale was such a fiend? :D

The first time the angel touches him, it’s as they descend from the walls of Eden.

It’s nothing, only a hand put out to steady him. A kindness.

And yet a thousand memories from life below make Crawly flinch instinctively at the contact. It’s stupid, really, and he’s sure the angel doesn’t notice. He doesn’t stop to consider the fact that the angel’s hand was soft and for a moment, his skin tingled where it touched.

Not right away, anyway.

It’s centuries later before it happens again and this time, he notices it, his breath hitching.

Aziraphale doesn’t even blink, even though their hands overlap for a couple of seconds when they both reach for the pitcher. Crawly stares, then pulls back his hand, rubbing his thumb along his fingers.

Is it the angelic power sparking against his own, he wonders, or something else? It isn’t painful, but it’s… something and he turns it over and over in his mind as the days, weeks, months and years tick by.

Even before he Fell, Crawly had little experience of physical contact. It’s not done in Heaven and whatever is done in Hell is usually a lot more painful and purposeful. It’s weird, he thinks, that a couple of fingertips skimming his skin could make the hair on the back of his neck rise.

It’s not something that happens often, but every time it does, Crowley finds himself wishing for a little more, a little longer, to try and understand the ripple that runs down his back, the way it makes him catch a sharp breath.

Aziraphale isn’t someone who touches much either.

As the years go by, it happens less and less. The angel is always so collected and polite, his hands neatly clasped in front of him, and Crowley has a feeling that rubbing himself up against an angel – in the name of science! – is probably definitely not good.

Still, once in a while, when he’s caught off-guard or distracted, Aziraphale catches Crowley by the arm or reaches out to get his attention. Once, he even grabbed his hand when they were watching their first firework display in China and Crowley’s heart felt like it was trying to break out of his chest.

It’s stupid and soft, but Crowley can count every one of the times and hoards them up for the nights when Hell is sharp and hard and too painful to bear. Sometimes, he trails his thumb along the back of his hand, imagining it’s someone else’s.

He knows why he can’t ask for it.

Aziraphale has made it clear over and over and over again. Friends they may be, but he’ll never forget – or stop reminding Crowley – that they are an angel and a demon, two creatures who are meant to be enemies.

Demons don’t get kindness and gentle touches and someone holding their hand with soft, warm fingers. That’s angelic stuff and he’s known it from the moment he Fell. That was the last time an angel had touched him with any intent, Gabriel’s hands burning on his skin as he was dragged from his hiding place on the Heavenly plains and cast out with the rest of the Hellish host. Bit embarrassing, truth be told. Gabriel, of all people. Smug git.

Still, if their fingertips brush or Aziraphale grabs at his arm in panic when he floors the accelerator, he’ll take it. A little bit of something is better than nothing, isn’t it? And if he drives a bit faster than he has to any time Aziraphale’s in the car, who can really blame him?

And he’s so… well, not good. S’a demon after all. But still, he keeps his thoughts – and his hands – to himself and it’s all fine. Really, it is, right up until the end of times and seeing his world burning in pieces of paper and suddenly, suddenly, he’s so fucking alone it hurts.

All he has left of his best friend, the only person who really trusted him and – despite what he said – like him is a smoke-stained book.

He runs his hand, trembling, over the heat-warped cover. Aziraphale probably did that too, before he– when he was alive. God, he loved his books. Always holding them, stroking them, tracing his fingers down the edge of the pages as he read. Crowley had almost envied them that. No, no almost about it.

He’s about ready to give up, about ready to drink himself into oblivion and stay there until the war begins and it’s all over because it doesn’t matter anymore. _Nothing_ matters anymore.

And then… then it does, and Aziraphale is alive and there’s work to be done and thoughts can – must – be shoved to the back of his mind to considered later, while he scares his plants and tries not to remember how much the tears burned.

Stop the boy, save the world.

So they do.

Face the wrath of Heaven and Hell.

So they do.

Dine at the Ritz.

So they do.

And it’s only then, only when they’re in the familiar, safe quiet of Aziraphale’s book shop that the thoughts crowd in on him again. He closes his eyes against them, breathing too hard, trying not to remember that brief, agonizing time when Aziraphale was _gone_. He’s not gone. He’s back and he’s here and everything is going to be fine. But the world is narrow and his thoughts are loud and even the wine in his glass isn’t helping.

“Breathe, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is close beside him. “It’s all right. Just breathe.”

Crowley’s eyes fly open to find Aziraphale’s so close beside him, watching with concern. “You were _gone_.” He forces the words out. It needs to be out of his head. If it’s out, it can’t sit there, screaming at him. “I– I thought I’d lost you. I was here– the fire– I couldn’t find you. ”

Aziraphale’s face creases in distress. “I’m here now. We’re both here. It’s all right.”

And it is. Of course it is. They faced the end of the world and heaven and hell and walked out the other side. And slowly, slowly, the knot in his chest unravels and he lets his head fall back against the back of the couch. All right. It’s all right. They’re all right.

And as his world widens out beyond the tangle of grief, loss and panic, he feels skin against skin, a hand around his hand, gripping it so tightly, as if letting go would tear them apart again.

Crowley looks down, dazed.

“Oh!” Aziraphale tears his hand away, pulling it back, and Crowley’s heart sinks again. Some things have changed, but some things – clearly – remain the same. The angel knots his hands in his lap, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Crowley raises his eyes to Aziraphale’s face, confused. “Forgot what?”

“How much it hurts you when we touch.”

If the angel had picked up a brick and smacked him around the head, Crowley couldn’t have been more surprised. “You _what_?” Aziraphale is staring at him as much as he’s staring at the angel. “What the hell are you on about?”

Aziraphale frowns, perplexed. “You– my dear, you always flinched. Ever since the garden. I thought– I mean, you’re a demon. If Holy Water harms you– I’m a creature of Holiness–”

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley says blankly, gaping at him. Six thousand blood years and all this time, the angel has deliberately been avoiding contact? “F’I didn’t spontaneously combust the first five times–”

“But you flinched!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Every time!”

“Yeah!” Crowley snapped back. “Because I was surprised! Hell isn’t exactly known for being touchy feely, is it?” He doesn’t know why he’s so irrationally angry. It’s not like Aziraphale was doing it to be cruel. For Hell’s sake, he was trying to be kind. Of course he bloody was. Stupid bloody angel.

It’s not because he’s a demon. It’s not because he’s unclean or bad or wrong or any of that.

And he’s so angry. With Aziraphale. With himself. With all of it.

Aziraphale is very still and very quiet. “Oh,” he says so softly, dazed and understanding

And before Crowley can register the movement, Aziraphale catches his hand again and squeezes and snuffs Crowley’s anger like a cap on a candle.

 

_____________________________

 

Aziraphale’s world was still unsteady after all that had happened. Now, it’s been given another jolt by Crowley’s revelation.

For so many years, he’s been so careful, trying to keep himself from accidentally harming the one person who has stood by his side.

It all made perfect sense when he had reasoned it out in the Garden, that first, baffling day. The demon had eyed his hand so suspiciously and was stiff and rigid as a board as he helped him down from the wall, fingers twitching and jerking against Aziraphale’s.

He was, after all, a demon.

It would make sense for an angel’s touch to burn him.

And all for nothing.

He stares at their hands now, his fingers grasping so tightly that Crowley’s skin is growing paler.

The demon is trembling.

“I’m… not hurting you?”

Crowley’s throat works as he visibly tries to swallow. “Well, cutting off my circulation, a bit,” he says, a little hoarsely. “But no. No pain.”

Mortified, Aziraphale loosens his grip, but before he can draw his hand away, Crowley glances at him, then uncurls his fingers and threads them between Aziraphale’s own. Instinct takes hold and his fingers curl in and they are palm to palm, skin to skin and he would have be blind to miss the way Crowley’s breath catches between his barely-parted lips.

He feels like such a fool, but it made sense in those days. Of course it did. They were enemies. The holy and the unholy. And yet he had never questioned it. Not even when questions filled his mind like water pouring into parched dirt. Why had he never wondered at the way Crowley had flinched at his touch?

Because he was _surprised_. Because Hell…

Oh Lord.

Of course Hell would never offer a gentle touch.

“You…” He doesn’t want Crowley to think that he blames him, but he has to know. “You never– that is to say– you could have…”

“What? Touched you?” Crowley’s words are sharp, but they lack the bite they had a moment before. His voice is trembling. “And make you believe everything you expected from me? That I was a lecherous sinful demon out to corrupt you?”

Aziraphale stares at his profile in horror. “ _Crowley_ …”

The demon is still watching their hands, his eyes – behind the smoke-dark glass – fixed on their intertwined fingers. “I understood,” he says quietly. “Demon. Angel.” His shoulders twitch, barely a shrug. “It’s all right.”

“But it’s not!” Aziraphale squeezes his hand again, wondering why, why, why he hadn’t dared to before. “Have you– you have no idea–” He breaks off helplessly, unable to articulate what he wants and needs to say. He takes a shuddering breath. “It’s such a _human_ thing to do, isn’t it?” he finally says, gazing at their hands. “To touch.”

“Mm.” Crowley moves his thumb, just a little, the brush of his skin rough and warm and not unpleasant.

Aziraphale’s heart is throbbing so loudly he can scarcely hear anything else. He brings his left hand over his body and touches his fingertips everso lightly to the back of Crowley’s hand. Crowley doesn’t gasp so much as release a full body shudder, as if he has been touched by an electric charge. The small, shivering sound that catches in his throat plucks at Aziraphale’s senses like a harp. It’s a _good_ sound, a sound of pleasure and awe, and oh, he wants to hear it again.

Slowly, he uncurls his fingers, letting them trace the fine bones of Crowley’s hand, grazing over the knuckles.

“Angel…” Crowley breathes. “Don’t have to.”

“I know,” Aziraphale murmurs, gazing at him, at his half-hidden eyes, “But you know I have a fondness for doing… human things.”

Crowley’s eyes snap to his face, a flush of colour across his cheekbones, his lips parting. “Angel…”

“I used to wonder,” Aziraphale murmurs, stroking his fingertips lightly between Crowley’s knuckles, “how it would feel to touch your hair.” He smiles wistfully. “You had the most beautiful hair, you know.”

Crowley looks like he is struggling to breathe, his throat working as he frantically tries to swallow. “Don’t–” His voice is a croak. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” Aziraphale twists his body on the couch and brings his free hand up to run his thumb down Crowley’s cheek. His skin is as rough, stubbled, fashionably-so. Such little details, Aziraphale thinks wonderingly, always such little details.

Crowley leans into his touch, shivering, like a cat demanding attention. “Why?” he whispers as if he can’t believe it.

Aziraphale almost laughs, but only almost. If he paused to think, Crowley would know the answer to that question. It’s a thousand lovely meals in fancy little restaurants. It’s a beloved velvet waistcoat worn soft with age. It’s the sweet aroma of a fine wine. It’s taking in all parts of everything – and everyone – he adores, every part of them, a catalogue of memories: scent, sight, touch, taste, sound, all of them.

“Because,” he answers simply, watching Crowley watching him. “I choose to.”

Crowley’s doubtful snort is a puff of warm air against his wrist, enough to make his fingers twitch against Crowley’s cheek. The demon doesn’t pull away, though he doesn’t move into Aziraphale’s hand, as if afraid he will break the spell holding them there.

Aziraphale’s heart is beating rapidly. Crowley looks so unsure, but the cant of his head, everything about his posture screams that he wants more, but he won’t ask. No small wonder, if he has been sitting at arm’s length for so long.

Only one thing for it, then.

“Crowley,” he says, drawing his thumb along Crowley’s flushed cheek. “Would you like me to touch you?”

 

_______________________________

 

 

How? How is he? With the words? And the asking? And wanting words back?

Crowley stares helplessly. Hand on his hand. Hand on his face. Warm. Touching. Offering more. Thumb brushing now.

“Would you?” Aziraphale sounds so. bloody. calm. Bastard. Lovely bastard.

No words. Throat too tight. Head too light. All he can do is nod. Cheek rubs against angel’s palm and he shivers again.

Aziraphale’s face goes all soft and bright. “ _Good_ ,” he says and lets go with both hands.

Crowley whines before he can stop himself, but it dies in his throat as the angel leans forward and wraps both his arms around Crowley’s body, pulling him close until there isn’t a breath of space between them. He freezes, too shaken to even think of moving, and Aziraphale’s curls brush his cheek.

“You can touch me too,” the angel says so softly, close to his ear. “I won’t break.”

It’s all the encouragement Crowley needs and he falls into the angel, clutching at him, Aziraphale’s waistcoat velvety and worn against his fingers.

And just like that, he’s hugging Aziraphale. Properly hugging him. It solid and its real and they’re both there together. Arms around the angel. Holding onto him like the world’s ending again, fingers sinking into the angel’s back and his breath coming in ragged, helpless breaths. Hands are stroking his back, gentle, soothing swirls and suddenly, it’s like a dam bursting and he has to bury his face in the angel’s shoulder.

“I know,” Aziraphale whispers and Crowley believes him. “I understand.”

“S’stupid,” he whispers hoarsely against Aziraphale’s collar. “So stupid.”

Aziraphale leans back far enough to look at him. “No,” he says with utter certainty. “It’s not.” He draws back one arm, then lifts his hand and his fingertips ghost along Crowley’s cheek, catching the moisture. “It’s no sin to feel.”

Crowley manages a small, wet laugh. “Tell that to the religious nutters.”

Aziraphale’s lips do that thing when he’s pretending to be annoyed, all thin and pursed, but Crowley knows him well enough to know he’s trying to keep from smiling. “Well,” he says, stroking his thumb along Crowley’s cheekbone, making fresh fizzy warmth spread through Crowley’s body, “it’s a damned good thing you’re not religious.”

Crowley sniffs hard and grins as much as he can. “Can you imagine? How many prayers does causing original sin need?”

Aziraphale smiles at that. “Infinite numbers, I expect.” He hesitates, then tentatively, as if he’s afraid, he strokes his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It’s like lightning shoots through Crowley’s body, his fingers clutching at Aziraphale’s soft, warm sides. The angel raises his eyebrows, then smiles in an oddly predatory way. “Oh, you like that?”

Crowley jerks his chin, breathing too hard to get the words out.

“Ah,” Aziraphale almost purrs as he shifts onto his knees, never quite slipping out of the shaking circle of Crowley’s arms. He brings up his other hand and meets Crowley’s eyes. “I’ve wanted to do this for _eons_.” Then both his hands are in Crowley’s hair and his fingers curl hard enough to _tug_ and Crowley’s mind goes white as fireworks go off behind his eyes.

“ _Fuck_!” It’s halfway between a shout and a moan.

“Oh…” Aziraphale is breathing almost as hard as he is. “That is… lovely.”

It takes Crowley several dazed seconds to realise the angel is talking about him. Is _looking_ at him. He hasn’t seen that expression on Aziraphale’s face since he tried freshly grated truffle for the first time and any breath Crowley had left is gone, just like that.

He forces himself to breathe, to swallow, to try and find his words, but it’s hard when Aziraphale’s nails are scratching slowly along his scalp and Aziraphale is staring at him like he wants to eat him alive, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Angel…” Crowley manages.

“Yes?” The hitch in Aziraphale’s voice is like a hook under his ribs. If he thought he was the only one getting anything out of this…

Crowley uncurls his fingers from Aziraphale’s side, reaching up to pull off his glasses. Fair’s fair. Both seeing eye-to-eye. On the same page. And Christ, Aziraphale’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes look so much darker than usual.

As if to reward him, Aziraphale rakes one hand down over the back of his skull, scratching deliciously down to the nape of his neck. His whole body feels like it arches in response and the only sound he can make is a short, stifled gasp. The glasses fall from his fingers, clattering on the floor.

“You _really_ like that, don’t you?” Aziraphale sounds both awed and delighted. “Oh, my dear…”

Crowley nods, his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face, his breathing coming too hard. He flexes his fingers against the angel’s side, digging them in, pulling him closer. They fit so well, he notices, wonderingly, Aziraphale’s softness fitting against all his angles.

“Lean back,” the angel murmurs, a tone brooking no refusal, both request and command, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but fall back against the arm of the couch, pulling the angel down over him. The soft warmth in Aziraphale’s expression is almost too much and the angel draws his fingers back from Crowley’s hair, caressing his cheek again. “I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear.”

“Don’t have–”

When Aziraphale’s fingertips gently brush his lips to stifle his protests, Crowley is sure he feels his heart stop. He doesn’t know which of them is more surprised – or delighted – when he darts out his tongue and tastes them. Tastes Aziraphale.

“Go on,” Aziraphale urges, his eyes shining. He presses his fingertip against Crowley’s lips. “ _Please_.”

It’s the please that does it. Aziraphale never usually asks. Looks, glances, smiles, raised brows, but never the words. Crowley watches the way his angel shudders in satisfaction when he slowly, slowly sucks on Aziraphale’s fingertip. It takes a little more concentration than usual, then his forked tongue curls around it too.

When Aziraphale draws back his hand, his fingertips catching against Crowley’s lips, he gazed down at Crowley with an intensity that steals away the demon’s breath all over again. “I would like, if I may,” he murmurs, his voice somehow even deeper than usual. “To try kissing you.”

“Yeah?” It’s almost embarrassing how breathy and small Crowley’s voice is by comparison.

Aziraphale nods, his thumb grazing Crowley’s lower lip. “Let lips do what palms do…”

Crowley gave a small, explosive burst of laughter. “I’m not Juliet.”

“Lord,” Aziraphale said and flashed that dazzling smile at him. “I should hope not.” And before Crowley can think or argue or – anything really, Aziraphale swoops down over him, soft lips pressing to his. It’s only a tantalising brush of contact, then it’s gone and he opens his mouth to protest until those same lips press hotly at the corner of his jaw, then there’s a flicker of tongue on bare skin and his brain shuts down completely.

 

_________________________________________

 

It’s ridiculous, Aziraphale thinks dizzily, how addictive Crowley’s scent is.

He has always been aware of it, on the peripheries of his senses, but always just out of reach, a forbidden pleasure.

Now, he can’t help glutting himself on it, burying his face in Crowley’s throat, breathing in the whisper of sulphur and something faintly chemical and beneath it all, an oddly-fresh, wild scent that reminds him of a forest. Or – the realisation jolts him – a garden.

“Angel…” Crowley’s voice is barely a breath now, and there is something divine about the need in it, the longing that sends pangs of pleasure through Aziraphale from head to toe.

What can he do but respond?

He presses his lips to Crowley’s throat, barely above the collar, then, recalling how Crowley reacted to the pull on his hair, draws back his teeth and – ever so gently – bites. The demon jerks so sharply that Aziraphale starts, but before he can lift his head, fingers wrap around the back of his head, sinking into his hair.

“Again,” Crowley… no, not says. Growls, and oh, Aziraphale’s head is spinning.

Crowley is so difficult, you see, acting so indifferently to so many things, but this? This, he apparently likes _,_ and by delicious coincidence, Aziraphale finds he _really_ likes to see and hear Crowley enjoying himself.

And so, he cups the demon’s jaw tenderly, tracing his left thumb along the sharp edge to the chin and slowly, gently pushes Crowley’s head back. So vulnerable, to bare his throat like that, but he allows it, which makes the angel’s mind whirl. Aziraphale nuzzles the length of his windpipe before – much more firmly than before – closing his teeth upon it and squeezing.

Crowley’s fingers clench in his hair, his shrill gasp like music to Aziraphale’s ears. His throat bobs against Aziraphale’s lips and Aziraphale cannot help himself, drawing back and soothing the bite with a tender lick. Beneath his tongue, he feels the shift of skin to the delicate ridges of scales and his heart stutters. Crowley never loses control of himself. He’s always prided himself on it. For him to become so…

Aziraphale lifts his head to meet Crowley’s eyes. They’re are wide, almost glassy, and his jaw is slack. There’s a beautiful flush across his cheekbones and it takes a few seconds for him to blink, his chest heaving, ribs rising and falling hard against Aziraphale’s. Divine, Aziraphale thinks wonderingly.

“You have no idea how lovely you are, my dear,” he breathes.

Crowley tries to bare his teeth, but he loses the impetus in another shaking breath. His fingers pluck Aziraphale’s hair, then slide, shivering, down to his shoulder. His lips move as if he wants to speak, but his words fail him and he only turns his head to nuzzle Aziraphale’s palm.

A frisson of pleasure runs through Aziraphale’s body and curious, he takes his right hand from Crowley’s hair to lift Crowley’s hand from his shoulder to his lips. Crowley’s fingertips are callused, but his palm is soft and, to Aziraphale’s delight, Crowley seems to experience the same sensation as Aziraphale brushes his lips to the demon’s palm.  He recalls the delicious sensation of Crowley’s tongue upon his finger and – without taking his eyes from Crowley’s face, traces his tongue across the ball of Crowley’s thumb.

Crowley bites his lip, stifling another of those beautiful profanities, clutching Aziraphale’s hand to his cheek, as if it’s an anchor for him.

“Enough?” Aziraphale manages to offer, though he would happily continue to test the very limits of Crowley’s responses.

Crowley’s breath is hot and wet on his skin. The sensation against the bare skin of his wrist is so tantalising, he curls his fingers, drawing Crowley’s lips closer to it. “No,” the demon barely more than sighs against his skin.

They’re balanced so precariously there, clutching each other, Crowley’s body halfway off the couch. An inch more and they’ll both fall and Aziraphale has no intention of anything – especially not another kind of fall – diverting Crowley’s attentions.

“You ought to lie down properly,” he suggests, nuzzling the tips of Crowley’s trembling fingers.

The demon stares at him as if he can’t understand for a moment, then – with clear reluctance, he pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s grasp and grabs the back of the couch. In a motion so swift and sinuous that Aziraphale can barely make sense of it, Crowley twists himself, his body, folding one leg to an almost unnatural angle, and all at once, Aziraphale finds himself framed by the demon’s upraised knees.

“Better?” Crowley rasps.

Lean thighs are pressing to his ribs and the angle means he has little choice but to sprawl up the length of Crowley’s body. He can feel the rapid throb of Crowley’s heart through that gauze-thin shirt he likes so much.

“Much,” he breathes, pushing himself up a little further, until their eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose, and all at once, lips-to-lips. It’s as if they’re drinking in the breath of one another, barely brushing, so light and chaste and yet every skim of flesh against flesh makes Crowley utter those lovely little sounds and Aziraphale thinks he might drown in them.

And all the while, Crowley’s eyes are on his face, dazed and awed as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Angel…” The word catches on Aziraphale’s lips, barely even reaching his ears.

“Mm?” He runs his cheek lightly against the demon’s, shivering pleasantly at the prickle of the stubble against his far smoother skin. He feels the brush of fingertips against his neck, slipping beneath his collar, so light and hesitant, but delightful all the same.

When Crowley’s teeth catch his earlobe, he feels like he might discorporate on the spot. He’s fairly sure he didn’t make a sound or react, but Crowley pushes him back far enough to meet his flustered gaze, an amused look on his face.

“Oh, so _you_ like it too?” He’s breathless, but there’s such radiance in his expression that Aziraphale can’t help but stare at him. Is this what he was like, he wonders, when he was an angel? So luminous and dazzling?

“I thought,” he finally manages to get the words to line up, “that was quite apparent.”

Crowley grins at him and Aziraphale quashes an unreasonable urge to swat him. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Crowley’s as he slips a hand beneath Crowley’s jacket and just as deftly tugs loose his shirt, slipping his hand beneath it. Skin on bare, untouched skin. He hooks his fingers and scratches.

The grin turns into something else and Crowley’s thighs tighten around his hips. “Fuck…”

Strange how such an obscene word can send such a spike of heat through him.

“Such language,” he reproaches, trailing his fingers back up Crowley’s ribs to rake them down again, hard enough to leave marks.

Crowley is breathing harder again and Aziraphale’s own breath catches when Crowley hooks one of his legs over Aziraphale’s back, pulling his closer if that is even possible. “Do you ever shut up, angel?” he growls, one hand fumbling at Aziraphale’s collar.

Aziraphale wonders at the grin he feels on his own face. He’s never felt the need to so urgently do _anything_ as much as see Crowley coming apart under his hands. “I can think of better things to do with my mouth,” he says and before Crowley can tell what he has in mind, he latches his mouth to Crowley’s throat and draws on it. A boy at Portland Place did it to him once, many years ago and it was… intriguing, but to Crowley, it seems so much more and he thrashes suddenly, both hands grasping at Aziraphale’s head.

“ _Fuck_!”

“Lovely,” Aziraphale purrs against his neck, then laps the beautiful bruise that is there. Marked. Crowley is _marked_ by him. He stares at it, then adds another, and another, his hand roaming beneath Crowley’s shirt, until Crowley is pulling at his hair and whining and breathless.

“Azi-Aziraphale…”

“Mm.” He’s working very determinedly on a beautiful necklace of his marks before the scales become too much thicker and stop him.

“Please!”

He lifts his head, startled, and Crowley is limp and staring at him. “I didn’t– did I hurt you?”

Crowley’s shake of his head is barely a twitch, as if he can’t even summon the energy to move. “You–” His eyes are dark and golden from one side to the other. Oh, he is coming apart, control spent, and Aziraphale is so very tempted to lower his head and finish the job, see how a demon finds bliss. Crowley’s tongue flickers, forked, along his dry lips. “You– go too fast for me.”

All the air rushes from Aziraphale’s lungs as if struck. “Oh…”

Any other words and he might have ignored them, but those words have too much weight to them, too many memories tied up in them. And Crowley is still staring at him, and for a moment, he feels the flicker of fear that Aziraphale might be angry, might be disappointed, might be any number of things.

“Oh…” He says again, softer. “Oh, my dear.” He draws his hand from Crowley’s shirt at once, smoothing it back down, then braces his hands on the couch beneath them to raise himself and give Crowley a little room to breathe. “Forgive me.”

Crowley’s eyes slip shut and he takes a shuddering breath. “No need.” His head is limp back against the arm of the couch, but his arms are still around Aziraphale’s shoulders, the fingers of one hand curling and uncurling in Aziraphale’s hair. One eye cracks open a sliver and the side of his mouth crooks up. “Didn’t mind.”

“Still,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You aren’t simply some object for me to do what I want with, as I choose.”

“Mm.” Crowley shifts under him and Aziraphale becomes suddenly aware of the leg still wrapped close around his waist. “Should’ve guessed.”

“Guessed?” Aziraphale catches a short gasp before it can escape when Crowley twists his fingers in Aziraphale’s curls.

“Know you.” The demon’s eyes are half-open now, watching him. “If you can lick it, sniff it, rub it…”

Aziraphale flushes, but can’t keep from smiling too. “Ah. You… noticed that.”

“Mm.” Crowley’s sounding more and more sleepy and satisfied. “Thought I was an exception.”

Aziraphale’s arms are trembling from the effort of holding himself up, so he lets himself rest back on Crowley’s chest. He folds one arm under him, propping his chin on his hand. “You certainly _are_ exceptional.”

Crowley groans. “And then you say something like that!” He pulls his hand down to push it in Aziraphale’s face. “You soft lump.”

Aziraphale turns his head and lightly kisses his palm. “You’ve known that for six thousand years.”

Crowley cups his cheek and the tenderness in his expression steals away Aziraphale’s every thought. “Yeah.” He strokes his fingertips down Aziraphale’s cheek. “Always jump in with both feet, don’t you, angel? Straight in the deep end.”

Aziraphale leans into his touch. Better, for now, to let him dictate the terms. “I got a little carried away,” he admits. “It’s just– I’ve wanted to for such a long time.”

“Come off it.”

Aziraphale gazes at him. Now that he looks, he can see the cracks, the doubts, the fears that are always there. “It’s true.” He allows himself a brief nuzzle of Crowley’s thumb. “Heaven knows how incompetent we might have been had we realised sooner.”

Crowley is gazing at him, disbelief still visible in his eyes. “Really?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale smiles encouragingly when Crowley starts to toy with his curls. “You know I tend to be… tactile.”

“Grabby,” the demon mutters in an undertone.

“Tactile,” Aziraphale corrects, shivering pleasantly as Crowley’s fingers settle for stroking the ends of his hair and down to his nape. “It’s an– ah– unfortunate…” His words trail off as two slim fingers draw slowly up and down beneath his collar, trailing in meandering circles. “Mm.”

“Mm.” Crowley echoes, lips twitching, eyes half-closed, watching him. He looks as smug as the cat with both cream and canary. “Looks like it goes both ways, angel.”

Aziraphale would pout, but he’s not wrong and the fingers on his skin are delightful. “Are you surprised?”

Crowley laughs. “Nah.”

They lie there for what might have been an eternity. Crowley’s touches are light, seldom wandering, but the quiet contentment on his face is worth more than any contact. Aziraphale can’t remember the last time he saw the demon so placid and – dare he think it? – satisfied.

“Would–” He falters, wondering if it would be too fast again.

“Hm?” Crowley’s fingers are back in his hair, toying with his curls.

“Would you like to stay tonight?” Aziraphale hastily raises a hand. “Not for any… ulterior motives or anything. I just think– it would be quite nice, wouldn’t it?”

The stupid, soft smile that spread across Crowley’s face calls up an equally stupid one on Aziraphale’s.

The demon draws both his hands around to take Aziraphale’s face between them. “I,” he says in all seriousness, “am not going anywhere. Not even if there’s another apocalypse.”

Aziraphale feels so astonishingly featherlight all of a sudden. “Really?”

“Mm.” He tugs gently on Aziraphale’s head. “Now, if you’re going to lie on me, get up here.”

Aziraphale wriggles up until they’re face to face. “Like this?”

Crowley shakes his head and draws Aziraphale’s head down onto his shoulder. “Like this.”

Aziraphale stares blindly into nothing as Crowley wraps him up in the snuggest embrace he can ever remember receiving. Warm and safe and Crowley’s cheek rubbing against his hair. They fit so nicely together, they really do. He can’t help but wrap his arm around Crowley as much as the couch will permit, burying his face in his neck.

A single finger prods the top of his head. “No more nibbling tonight, angel.”

Aziraphale can still see his earlier marks, beautiful little rosettes on Crowley’s pale skin. “No more tonight,” he agrees. Tomorrow, after all, is another day.

 

____________________________

 

They probably shouldn’t have slept on the couch.

Crowley feels it all the way down his back, but he wouldn’t have moved, not even if the earth opened up under the shop. After six thousand years without it, he wasn’t about to lose the chance, never knowing if things would be the same the next day.

He stretches, joints crackling, and peers around the shop.

Aziraphale was up with the birds, which is no surprise. He never was one to sleep a lot.

“Angel?” he calls, trying to crush down the fear that instinctively rises every time Aziraphale is out of sight now. It’s easier than it was those first few days. He can sense him nearby anyway, but the relief is like a cool wave when Aziraphale walks back into the room, carrying two mugs.

“I remembered you liked coffee in the morning,” he says with a bright smile.

Crowley sits up, swinging one leg off the couch and reaching out demandingly. “God, yes.” He can’t remember when he mentioned it. He can vaguely remember the rant. 1675, maybe? That sounds about right. When the bloody stupid King decided to ban it. Just what every caffeine addict wants.

The angel comes close to the couch and hands the mug to him, then glances at the space beside him. “May I?”

A knot that had twisted itself in Crowley’s gut unravels in an instant. He’d half-expected everything to go back to the way it was before, one night be damned. He grins and spreads his legs a little wider, patting the V between them. “Course.”

Aziraphale sits down at once, one of his thighs snug against Crowley’s. What Crowley doesn’t expect is the way Aziraphale immediately leans into him, or the way his own arm leaps automatically to drape around the angel’s shoulders. Both of them stare at his rogue arm, then at each other in surprise.

“I thought I might have scared you off,” Aziraphale admits with a blush that looks bloody good on him.

Crowley laughs and uses the rogue arm to pull his angel more comfortably against him, his other leg a warm support against the angel’s back. “I don’t scare _that_ easily, angel,” he says.

Blue eyes look up at him, hopeful. “Not too fast, then?”

Crowley takes a sip of the coffee which is – miraculously – exactly how he likes it. “We can figure things out,” he says.

“And if I push too hard–”

Crowley shuts him up by gently but firmly clamping his hand over the angel’s mouth. “You talk too much.”

The angel gives him a reproachful look then, with an impressive level of malevolence, gives him a wet, sloppy lick across the palm.

“Angel!” Crowley shakes his hand, trying desperately to hide his grin. “That’s disgusting.”

Aziraphale gives him that prim little smile that everyone else thinks is innocent. “Oh dear,” he says and sips his tea as if he hasn’t done a thing.

Crowley deliberately wipes his palm on Aziraphale’s waistcoat, grinning at the look of indignation. “C’mere, angel,” he says happily, pulling Aziraphale back to rest against his chest, right where he should always be.


End file.
